


Fraternity

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:08:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-examination of two scenes in Les Miserables with noncanon internal dialogue imposed on canon book happenings. </p><p>Takes place during <b>Jean Valjean: Book the First: Chapter 2</b> and <b>Jean Valjean: Book the First: Chapter 23</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Embraces the Day

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still reading Les Mis, I like, just got done with this part and was seized by fervor to write a response to it. So I'm sorry if my characterization is off? Or anything of that sort?
> 
> Also I hope I understand the term "canon compliant" accurately, I mean that this is a thing which could have happened in canon but we weren't shown. 
> 
> Also also idk what sort of tags to use, I don't know how other fanworks in this fandom are tagged, I am literally still reading the book. 
> 
> Oh finally, there's like three lines in here that are direct lifts from the version of Les Mis I'm reading, see end notes to know which ones, just so we're all gravy on what's me and what's Hugo/his translator.

          Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it. Enjolras was not one of them. 

          Boxed in as they were, it was necessary to take inventory of what they had available to them. The kitchen-turned-infirmary had been scoured for resources, the living quarters of Mother Hucheloupe and the two serving girls had already been looked over, the mattresses and other useful items dragged out and dispersed among the men. Still no food had been found, though there was the discovery of Father Hucheloupe's good stock sealed in the cellar—"It's lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving those bottles," Bossuet observed.  
          The mention of Grantaire stirred something in Enjolras.  
          He continued apace with the preparations, overseeing the shoring up of the barricade, raising the tattered coat of the old man as a second flag, speaking to the men and stoking the fire in their hearts. Yet there was a lull, even for him, and when it came, he thought of what Bossuet had said in the cellar. He thought of Grantaire.  
          Enjolras made his way to the upper room of the wine shop. 

          Grantaire was exactly as he'd last been, seated in a chair and slumped over a small table, surrounded by enough bottles to satisfy half a dozen grown men. The upper room was empty save him, the suitable furniture having been hauled off to be made use of in the barricade, and the suitable men having gone off to defend it.  
          Grantaire let out an especially sonorous snore.  
          As though this sound had been an agreed upon signal between the two of them, Enjolras went to him, long stride making quick work of the distance. 

          Enjolras' presence did not, necessarily, wake Grantaire.  
          The stupor of the severely drunk is a difficult thing to cut short once begun, and though Grantaire felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder, he could not have been said to have been properly awake. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes, squinting in the dim light to see a form too upright and sure to be anyone but Enjolras before him.  
          He laid his head back down.  
          Enjolras shook Grantaire vigorously until his bleary eyes blinked up at him once more. "This is no place for you," Enjolras said. "Get you gone."  
          Grantaire swayed slightly in his seat, his eyes unfocused.  
          "This is no _place_ for you," Enjolras intoned again. "This is not your battlefield, these are not your beliefs to die for. They were never your beliefs; though you heard them and knew their ins and outs well, you never spoke for them or believed in anything. You who would believe in nothing should not die for a republic built on belief. You do not belong here. Get you gone." His voice was unwavering and firm, neither harsh or cold, angry or gentle. It held the tone of a schoolteacher, of a lecturer taking the time to explain a simple concept to a somewhat simple student. There was no more warmth in it than there would be in a recitation of numbers.  
          The words seemed to penetrate the fog in which Grantaire existed. His back straightened, his eyes focused on Enjolras' face, though he continued to sway ever so slightly. He raised his chin, and spoke. 

          Let us, for a moment, pause to consider the effect that drink has upon man.  
          Spirits have existed for as long as man has—with the existence of man comes the existence of a conscious mind, with the existence of a conscious mind comes the substance to dull that mind's wits. It is as though a mind, immediately upon recognizing itself, strives to obscure that recognition and throw itself into unremarkable dullness, where the world can be taken for a dream and nothing seems to really matter.  
          It has been remarked that Grantaire had an exceptional appetite for drink—for food, for women, for all the small pleasures of life, but most especially for drink. He was the careless cynic in his group of comrades, the observer out on a lark, discussing all, believing in nothing, possessing great wit and a gifted tongue, but putting neither to any aim. It might have been said that Grantaire believed in nothing, so he drank.  
          But a careful distinction must be made here. A state of drunkenness does not arise on its own; man must seek it out, knowing full well his aim when he consumes it. Grantaire did not drink because he believed in nothing, Grantaire drank to believe in nothing.  
          The mind of men, upon recognizing itself as such, has ever sought to obscure that recognition. Grantaire just worked somewhat harder at it than most.  
          To look inward and not like what we see is a terrible fate, one met by looking outward and denouncing all that exists outside ourselves, so as not to admit our feelings on our own inner workings.  
          Yet there will, for some, come a time when outside ourselves we see, not something worth denouncing, but something that we only wish our inner workings would match. It is no less a part of the outside world, no less a part of the structure we ridicule and debase. But it possesses the unique and infinitely desirable status of: if we were such, we might be happy with ourselves.  
          This was Enjolras for Grantaire. 

          So when Grantaire spoke, in this twilight state between drunkenness and sobriety, it was with a quiet solemnity heretofore unseen in him by any of his companions, least of all Enjolras. Here, restored to him for this passing moment in time, was a clarity of desire and purpose he had sought all these years, trailing after the leader of the ABC.  
          The reader will be reminded that Enjolras had charged Grantaire to leave, this not being his place.  
          "Where you are," Grantaire spoke, "That is where I belong." 

          They stared at each other a moment in the hush of the wine shop, Enjolras' eyes making minute movements, searching Grantaire's face for some sign of insincerity or jest, Grantaire's gaze possessing the steadiness of someone who does not really see what he looks at. The moment was broken when Grantaire's arm darted out, grasping the front of Enjolras' uniform, pulling the blond forward even as he rose a half step himself, and kissed him squarely on the mouth.  
          The motion ceased almost as soon as it began, the sudden elevation on Grantaire's part giving rise to a wave of dizziness that had him tumbling back in his seat, eyes closed and breath heavy. When his breathing had steadied and he openedhis eyes once more, he was alone in the room.  
          Grantaire laid his head down and resumed sleep.


	2. A Tomb All Flooded With the Dawn

          "Long live the Republic! I'm one of them." 

          These words coming from the corner of the upper room of the wine shop struck Enjolras with far more force than bullets were capable of. He had hardly recovered from the first volley when a second was fired:

          "Long live the Republic!"

          It was the voice of Grantaire. 

          Enjolras had not seen the man since the night previous, when he had been grabbed roughly by the front and pulled into a kiss all unawares. He had not lingered afterward; there had still been much to do.  
          Yet the matter had not remained untouched in his mind. 

          In the history of man, there had been a great many things to fight for. For religion, for land, for more power, for less.  
          But this, this was a fight for humanity. A fight that fighting might stop. It was a battle for liberty, equality, fraternity.  
          Liberty and equality, easily quantified things. The liberty of man, the power to determine his fate for himself. The equality of man, that all may have a say in government, in the direction of a country, of a people. That no voice may be stamped out because it came from a mouth too poor, too dirty, too uneducated. That no one be too uneducated, that all be afforded opportunities to grow.  
          To be human.

          But this business of fraternity, how were they to quantify that? To stand up for each other, to love each other—how might that be written into law?  
          It could not be. Love forced was not love at all. Love must be allowed to grow of its own, without prompting. Love for each other based on the above principles, love that would stand the test of battle, that would temper and emerge as hardened steel, a weapon in its own right.  
          Enjolras loved. He loved all of France, he love its people, he loved who they were, but most of all, he loved who they might become.  
          His was the fraternal love of which the revolution spoke. But it was not the only type of love which had its place in the rebellion.

          Here we see Grantaire. It is said he believed in nothing, cared for nothing, would amount to nothing.  
          And yet, he loved.  
          He did not love as Enjolras did. He had no cares for France, for its people, for who they were or would become. He did not even harbor love for a single person, for shape and form and voice. He coveted no desire to marry and grow old, to raise children and achieve the contented happiness of someone sated with life.  
          What he loved was a firebrand.  
          Grantaire had flicked to Enjolras as a moth to flame, with none of the mindlessness of that fluttering insect but the same dire consequences. He loved Enjolras, not as a man, but as a lost man loves a compass, as a drowning man loves a gasp of air.  
          Grantaire had been drowning all his life, and Enjolras was the air of the alps—almost too thin to survive on and cold as heaven in your lungs.  
          Grantaire loved Enjolras' very being, and did not hesitate to mold his own to it. 

          And this, too, was fraternity. 

          So when Grantaire took his place by Enjolras' side, Enjolras did not deny him. Perhaps Grantaire did not belong in the rebellion, but there, inside the upper room of the wine shop they used to most frequent, at the end of the barrels of a dozen of guns, at Enjolras' side—Grantaire most certainly belonged there. 

          Enjolras took Grantaire's hand, and smiled.  
          France had been his mistress in life; her people would be his love in death. 

          Starting with Grantaire.

**Author's Note:**

> Hugo lines:
> 
> Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it. 
> 
> "It's lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving those bottles," Bossuet observed. 
> 
> "Long live the Republic! I'm one of them."  
> "Long live the Republic!"


End file.
